Pansy Talks, Talks, Talks...Always With The Talking

Git Ready Fer Some Tall Tales Told Texas Gal Style!
Real Life Adventures of a Fabulous REDHEAD (because the best head is a red head) who will pop a quiz in your ass if you do not memorize ALL details. And where'd she get her such no manners rudeness?

Only Mr. Pansy

Something Pansy Found 2 Lifetimes Ago

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, But to be fearless in facing them.Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,But for the heart to conquer it.Let me not look for allies in life's battlefield,But to my own strength.Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved,But hope for the patience to win my freedom.Grant me that I may not be a coward,Feeling your mercy in my success alone,But let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

Thursday, February 25, 2010

It was Pansy’s Dream Come True. Her household appliances had a meeting and conspired to create a flood, thereby ruining the vinyl flooring in the kitchen/laundry/half bath areas….but no damage to anything else. Pansy has long wanted to replace that vinyl flooring and get the subfloor squeaking repaired, but could only afford to do so via her homeowner’s insurance deductible route. Good appliances! Good, good appliances! [Promises to sneak them some treats but stoopid appliances don’t know there is no such thing as a “treat” for an appliance. Double Win for Pansy!]

When will Pansy learn to beware what she wishes for? The Pansys are successfully pursuing their unbroken record of being magnets to the worst sorts of "worker people". This event would be no exception. We had a washing machine flood a couple months ago. The washing machine was not broken, the water simply hit a root clog in the pipes outside, did a U-turn and came back into the house through the 1/2 bath toilet. Not sewage water; just a nice big load of hot, soapy wash water to give the vinyl flooring one last scrubbing.

We have no explanation for why we put up with the Bizzaro Flooring Dude (BFD) and everyone we know (because they weren't caught in the vortex of crazy) said we should have marched down to the flooring store and demanded their "A" team within the first day. But, nooooo. We got F Troop’s leader. A glacier moves faster than he did. TEN GODDAMN (yes, I said DAMN) DAYS to do a 3-day job.

BFD is a 56 year old who “got with my Lord when I was 28" guy who works with his tinny, static-riddled radio on full blast, set to a Christian Soft Rock station, he works alone, evangelizing the whole fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) time; and mumbled a lot. To himself? God? I don’t know. But he didn’t mumble so low that I couldn't hear him as he shared: he and his buddies burglarized and vandalized many schools in this area and he named them....all 2 dozen plus. But he's glad he got caught before they moved on to stores. He dropped out of high school. He joined the Marines, but got out after 3 years (even Pansy knows something is wrong with THAT math); he just had his 4-year sober anniversary (I guess the Lord wasn't all THAT close with him for a number of the earlier years); he's divorced (gee, really?); his grown son is currently living with him "trying out California over Arkansas"; it's lonely in his apartment; "is that a surround sound system you have there?"; "where is your Harley?" (from a photo on the refrigerator); he brought in a piece of paper with ink blots on it for us to "stare at the four dots and then at a blank wall and what do you see?" I refused to do it but Nice Guy Mr. Pansy did and of course it's the classic "Jesus" portrait. Ho the fuck hum, WHAT a surprise! BFD was practically peeing his pants in anticipation of our imminent salvation upon viewing this amazing magical piece of paper. Which reminds me, he also peed 40 times a day and each time he peed he would make a mark on a Post-It while he tried to discuss his fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) prostate with me! Which HE pronounced “prostrate” and I am so proud to know that his kidneys just don’t hold like they used to. [screech] He tells me my daughter no way looks 28 years old; my husband seems to have a mellow vibe (oh, he changed THAT tune very soon); I don't look old enough to have children that old; blah/blah/blechhh.

And I know all this and so much more about BFD??? Because the Bible, I mean, HE told me so! Aaaarrggghh! I begged God to PLEASE save me. From this jerk. We googled him up and waddayaknow......he is listed under "felonspy/dot/com”. I am thinking that to make THAT list involves more than mere misdemeanors. Plus, Cubbie Darling AND his Combover hated BFD with a vehement violent deep-abiding passion. Not a good sign at all! I made sure I was on the phone with someone at all times; the doors and curtains were kept wide open; even the garage door was open so that I could at least try to make a run for it to the street where he would catch me and end my life in the gutter. Actually, I was not too worried. I take comfort in knowing that he would have asked Jesus to bless me as he killed me.

Every day he would finally show up around 10:30 with his vanilla latte grande cappuccino mocha espresso cafe au lait half-decaf/half-nonfat sweetened with Splenda coffee from the corner gas station. He would then spend hours doing nothing; he left for hours on end at random times; and, of course, he hung around way too much on our time at night, exhausting us all half to death with just trying to breathe calmly while he putzed around. I am pretty certain he hoped we’d turn into good Christians and ask him to have dinner with us. I would sooner throw the food into the garbage disposer. Oh, yeh. He had his work cut out for him when it came to saving US.

The Very Worst of all this? The BFD actually did a beautiful job on the actual flooring installation! Really. Oh, he screwed the ever-lovin fucking holy crap out of all the details. But the floor and the vinyl came out PERFECT. Which only shows how incredibly obsessive/compulsive he is. He did such a beautiful, meticulous job of installing the plywood underlayment that the animals thought he was done and promptly reclaimed their territory. The pomeranian peed by the dishwasher; the outdoor cat pooped by the oven, the indoor cat looked at the other two animals with utter disgust as he carried around mouthfuls of food and dribbled them everywhere, creating greasy stains. I don't know art, but I know what I like and this was "performance art" at its most basic, profound, in yo’ face muthafucka flooring guy level. I praised the pets and gave them extra treats.

BFD molested my brand new dark and handsome dishwasher, Eduardo. It took hours of expensive therapy to get Eduardo back to his old virginal self. BFD beheaded the dryer vent. We are still waiting for the surgeon to come out and tell us the operation was successful. BFD “didn’t like” how each doorway transition had been done before and butchered them into oblivion. The coup de grace? Mr. FelonSpy ALSO “didn’t like” how our front door worked and dismantled the LOCK and doorknob…..destroying the integrity of the fucking door frame in the process. Even the 3-legged cat can knock that door in now, with his remaining paw behind his back. Ooh, THAT recorded call to the flooring company will be used to convict Pansy The Lipstick Wearing Pit Bull because we are seriously wondering which will happen first:

Will the flooring details be repaired/completed or will I be taken into custody as a person of interest in a missing flooring man case? “Oh we found him .... floating down the Sacramento River, with a 4 ft piece of flooring shoved up his ass.”

I am quite certain that BFD spent 90% of his time here praying to Jesus in 5 minute intervals:

“Please, Jesus. Make the demon voices go away for even just 5 minutes. So that I won’t have to listen to them telling me to kill that woman over there.” He’d get his 5 minutes and then have to pray all over again. I would not be surprised if he showed up late and left at random times because of his prior commitments to AA meetings; his parole officer; drug tests; tent revivals, shock treatments, etc. He is undoubtedly struggling mightily just to get through each 5 minutes of every day and night. And you know what? I DON'T FUCKING CARE! ~sob~

Of course, what HE doesn’t know is that while he was praying to Jesus? Pansy was also praying. To God:

“Please, God. Keep my hands busy for 5 more minutes. So that I won’t grab those scissors that are Right Here and run screaming into the kitchen and stab that man over and over and over again.” I’d get my 5 minutes and then have to pray all over again.

But God trumps Jesus (being His Father and all). So God granted MY prayers, sent Jesus to His room without The Last Supper and those demons that talk to BFD? God granted BFD half his prayers: BFD still has to listen to the demons but now they sing to him. They sing every horrible head-banging, heavy metal, sinful rock and roll song PLUS filthy rap lyrics thrown in for good measure. Because I had to listen to the blaring Christian Soft Rock music for 10 fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) days!

[note to self: remember this rant when I get held to account for my personal Tote Board of Reasons I Should Go To Hell.]

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

It happened so suddenly. And unexpectedly. At first I was so amazed I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I have never had very high hopes of being able to go through this rite of passage. I experimented. Stand up. Yes. Sit down. Yep. Twist left; twist right. Yes and yes. Why me? Why now?

What is Pansy talking about? Well, she went international. Actually, it was more like intercontinental. Hmm...not quite the right word. In-Country? Too military sounding. Ahh, of course! IN-CONTINENT. Oh. My. God. Pansy would not kid about THAT. Because she was majorly pissed off. Figuratively and Literally.

I decided it had to be that new blood pressure drug. But I checked with my doctors to explore any other possible explanation. They ran a few lab tests. Negative on any UTI issues. Good. Still, they mocked Pansy's self-diagnosis. But I knew I was right. Because when that drug dosage was cut back (due to side effects not self-diagnosis), Pansy got her groove back. Stoopid do-NOT-know-it-all doctors.

The new drug's major side effects are: dry mouth; constipation. Ha! How about Drier Than The Sahara Desert? Even my snot was turned into dry flakes from nostril constipation. All my mucous membrane tissues went d-r-y. Speaking of tissues, I went through rolls of toilet tissue like no woman ever has before. Because I was drinking excessive quantities of liquids, trying desperately, futilely, to overcome a drug-induced systemic drought. And when you overfill the tub, the waters will flow. Every few minutes. Around the clock. For any damn reason and for no dam reason.

I could only laugh about this (oops, there goes another wet pair of panties) since crying (dry eyes, ya know) was not a viable option. Everything was very dry, except the panties, sofa, chairs, bed, Mr. Pansy, the puppy, the pussy, etc., and "irritated". Especially my mood if anyone thought I was going to allow this to be my future NOW. Hell, the doctor actually said "most women your age are already in diapers." He is just about well enough to be released from the ICU because Pansy is NOT "most women" and never will be.

So....beware! You, too, could become in-continent. With no warning. Just pray you have a drug you can blame for it. On the other hand, I don't know many people who can mark their calendars with such conviction as to the exact day their personal waters involuntarily parted. Mine was January 22. I am petitioning Congress to wipe that date forevermore from all calendars. Unless they will make it a 3-day National Piss Your Panties Holiday.

[Suddenly remembers: some people will PAY for that "treat". Job Opportunity! See? A "golden" lining is possible even for rain clouds.]

Thursday, October 29, 2009

So, on 10/21/09 I once again got the ever popular (not) fabulous (yes) RadioFrequency Ablation (RFA) surgery done on a new "enlarging" tumor on my liver. The surgeon and I both tell the anesthesiologist to drug me to holy hell (and back, please) so that maybe I will be able to stay ahead of the pain curve this time around. [Please see 2008 surgery post "Fuck Diamonds--Cancer Treatments Are A Girl's BFF"]

I wake up. So far, so good. Not in pain? EXCELLENT! But kinda nauseated. Nurse gives me a pill. A rilly nice pill. Generic name: Pain, I Will Kick Yore Ass To Last Tuesday.

This time around I have learned that just because a procedure is called "outpatient" that does not mean you will not be bedridden. You just get to be bedridden at home instead of in a hospital. I got home around 3:30pm; ate food like a truck driver until I collapsed into bed at 7:00pm. I woke up the next morning at 9:00am. Throwing up because, unfortunately, more samples of that rilly nice pain pill did NOT come home to bed with me. I threw up for 36 hours until the doctor came up with (puke pun!) THE PLAN.

THE PLAN encompassed making several dreams come true! I got to stop throwing up, which facilitated being able to take pain pills that would stay inside of me so they could do their job (half-assed compared to that rilly nice pill ~sad face~), which meant I was somewhat more comfortable, which was all made possible solely due to Mr. Pansy's skill and extreme interest/desire to implement THE PLAN. The doctor prescribed another kind of anti-nausea medication for me. Who knew that Mr. Pansy's dream job as he was growing up was that if he studied hard, stayed out of trouble, and tried his best, maybe...JUST maybe...he could become one of the few, the proud: A Suppository Installer. Have I mentioned he is a very demented person? Which goes a long way toward explaining why I like Mr. Pansy a whole (suppository pun!) lot. giggle.

Still, only 5 days in bed. Thrashing between 22 minute bouts of sleep with a 102 fever. Not too much to fuss over about that, compared to last year's incredible level of misery. On Day 6 I got up and had my usual Monday Luncheon with my Very Most Christian Friend who quite resembles a Very Pretty Queen Camilla of England. And went straight home back to bed. But on Day 7 I got up again and got my nails done. I think. I do clearly recall I went straight back home to bed again. And on the Eighth Day she got her usual chemo. After doing her best to get assurances it was not a Bad Plan. Sadistic oncologists.

I woke up at 3am on the Ninth Day and proceeded to beat the holy hell out of this stupid computer. I cleaned its disc; I defragged it; I bought a Registry Cleaner online (it was on sale, it was 4:30am, I had a credit card, no one could have stopped me). The Registry Cleaner found 700+ "problems" that the free Registry program I had just downloaded had left behind. It is impossible to get good help these days, I swear. Which you will have noticed by now I have NOT been swearing at all in this post. What the fuck is up with THAT? Then, after jillions of aborted tries, I finally successfully downloaded: THE FLASHPLAYER. Now Mr. Pansy can once again continue his pursuit of his Other Dream Job: Volunteer Citizen Monitor of Free Porn Sites. Because SOMEBODY has to make sure those places are pornly. There is internet fraud everywhere, you know. But first, after he heard what all I had done to the computer........he wants me to do all that to HIM! giggle.

(I vow to find out what the rilly nice pill's real name is and when I find out I will also tell YOU its real name. It was THAT good.)

Thursday, October 1, 2009

My onco called the Mayo Clinic on 9/18 to refer me for evaluation for a liver transplant. After a lengthy conversation with them, my onco called me at home around 11am. Well, Baby Pansy and I were out getting emergency hoof repairs for her wedding on 9/19. Mr. Pansy alleges he spoke with the onco for a long time. Don't try to fool PANSY! Mr. Pansy doesn't even talk to ME that much. Mr. Pansy is well known as "Chatty Cathy" for his verbosity. That means we mock him because he is the original "very quiet" person. But he took notes and this is what I understand is the situation:

The Mayo people are agog about me; they still would love to have me come be evaluated (if I wish); but I am not within their current protocol for bile duct cancer liver transplant candidacy.

Well.Shit.And "whew".

I was/am very conflicted about a transplant but only because it sure sounds scary, etc. The bottom line is, if I could have a transplant I would go for it. I know from personal experience that side effects can be mitigated and lived with. It took 3 years to dial in controlling my side effects from my ongoing chemo and even THOSE 3 years were well worth the annoyances involved! haha! But what a shocker to actually have to consider "choosing" a transplant. Now I don't even have that choice. Which is where I was before, so...okay.

Science has come along far enough to actually diagnose me 6 years after the fact; and in that same 6 years it has only recently become possible for bile duct cancer people to even have a limited shot at a transplant. So who is to say that science won't/can't come through for me (or any of YOU!!) "in time"?

What if I should get "sick" before science comes through for me re a transplant? Well, hell......Been There, DOING That! hahhahaha! Best of all: I am Patient #[fill in random series of digits until your hand cramps] Yay! The Mayo Clinic itself has joined The Legions Of Those Who Know My Name!

Pansy [now pounding the shit out of cancer]: WHAT'S MY NAME!??Cancer: You are Pansy, The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe!Pansy [gives hard vag kick* to cancer]: That's Right! And don't you ever forget it!

*"vag kick" is not meant to imply my cancer has a vagina. It's just a fight move we like to bust over on my internet cancer group. Actually, I see myself giving cancer more of a "vag stomp" with some heavy, steel-toed boots.

And, by my Pansy Math calculations, it appears that between those two phone calls my onco did not help One Singular Patient for TWO HOURS! He'd better not try pulling that stunt with me during our next appointment.

This is an excellent scientific speech about cancer and its cure:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy67kwA6Xm4

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

I guess the answer is: a bit of both. And you should know right now that I am seriously breaking "Pansy Protocol" with this post. I NEVER put anything "out there" until it is a Completely Finished Big Picture and I always hang it up with at least a dozen sturdy railroad spikes. Now I am flinging out a bunch of out of focus, poorly framed snapshots on pins and needles. I am a wreck.

What is wrong with me? Who, with "inoperable, incurable, unknown primary cancer", would not pay Cash American Dollars (hell, I'd even throw in some Fake Australian Pesos if that would help) to be told they had an 80% chance of being cured? I have actually lived long enough to have science come through for me. What the fuck are THOSE odds?

My oncologist called me on the phone last week and said he knew what kind of cancer I have and that I now have a chance at a CURE. I have "nonresectable bile duct cancer" and I can have a liver transplant. I gasped and shouted at him "WHAT? You could not be scaring me more or shocking me more if you tried." I am certain he put his phone on "mute" after that first of many more shrieks out of me during our conversation.

There was a real disconnect between my doctor thinking he was telling me good news and me hearing words that instantly made me want to run and hide under my bed. Some big ass (turns out it was mine) prevented me from getting completely under that bed and as much as I struggled and yelled "no no no no no", he deteminedly pulled on my legs. Good thing I had just shaved them. And, worse, he was not "pulling my leg." Then I spent the next 72 hours like a wild animal feverishly trying to chew off my leg to free myself from this trap I suddenly felt I was in.

For once in my head-in-the-sand approach to my cancer, I went all internetty. And inner-nutty, too. When I hung up the phone after talking with my doctor I was alone in my house. Good thing, because I scared not only myself but all the pets with the primal howl that came out of me and I was close to hysterical: crying and incoherent. Mr. Pansy happened to call me and I sounded like I needed an ambulance.

Even when I went on the internet and found "good" information, STILL I have continued to mope around in a puddle of tears and flop-sweat.

PROS:--We now know I have bile duct cancer. All this time it has been "undiagnosed primary".--It does not matter if we had known this 6 years ago. Or even sooner. So no angry "why didn't/couldn't you find this out sooner?"--Because until fairly recently a liver transplant for bile duct cancer patients was NOT an option. Why waste a liver on someone whose cancer might come back?--We know my cancer's name because my doctor HAD to do a liver biopsy a couple weeks ago. (more on this later)--Bile duct cancer liver transplants have an 80% success rate (live for 5 years)--I can have a live donor and don't have to wait for a dead donor. [looking at YOU to go get tested. har!]

CONS:--if it doesn't work I am dead on the spot. I will lose what time I would have had left if I had not done the transplant.--if it does work I would need to take immunosuppressive drugs forever. And they "can" cause high blood pressure (already got that); high cholestrol (who cares); diabetes Type 2 (that's a biggie but.......).

I just want so much to keep on with my cancer life "as usual": the weekly chemos, routine CT scans, occasional port replacement surgery, the new addition of occasional rogue tumor removal via RFA (radio frequency ablation). I truly feel so Perfectly Healthy. I can do anything I want and those things I no longer can do I am okay with not doing them.

And what's with my onco doctor? He is my Second Husband. Why is he trying to "divorce" me? haha.

Why do I have to make a "Pansy's Sophie Choice" of throwing away everything on a risky transplant?

Dammit, I really do know that my doctor IS giving me good...fuck, make that: GREAT NEWS. I can have a liver transplant. It is considered a cure. But now I know Just How Easy it is to hate that dreadful "5 years" timer overhead.

I am surgery-phobic. I could never get that rockin' set of boobs no matter if they were free. I could never do a face lift or tummy tuck or any kind of cosmetic surgery. I don't know why. Just not on any lists of mine.

In fact, the ONLY list I have ever had is my "TO DO" list. Of men. AFTER Mr. Pansy dies, so you can just go slap down that tent in your pants now, boys. Stupid horndongs. (nice typo/pun there, Pansy) Sheesh!

THIS ONE IS THE BIGGIE:

I truly cannot keep my "current cancer life as is." That ship has already long sailed away. And I didn't even really know it until right now.

At the beginning my doctor told me that if they knew that I had, say, liver cancer (since that is where the tumors are) they would have just done a liver transplant and we would have all gone on our merry ways. But with an "undiagnosed primary" all they could do was try chemo and see what happened. As we all know, I totally snuck under that limbo stick.

He also declined over the years to do another biopsy because a biopsy leaves a slight trail of loose cells which could rile things up and make the cancer go "boom". And since everything was "working", the risk of a biopsy rocking the boat was not worth it. And everything WAS working until.........

Summer of 2008 a singular tumor went rogue. But it was a tumor that had been there since Day One, so we took a chance on an RFA and, as we all know, I really snuck under that limbo stick. Sprained myself a little bit with the "post ablation syndrome" but even that was actually just another adventure.

My doctor is a wonderful guy and he really will not play "self fulfilling prophecy" games. So he does not go very much into the "what ifs" of anything. We just deal with the "what is-ers". But when that first rogue tumor happened, that is when my doctor started NOT telling me something.

Spring of 2009 another singular tumor has gone rogue. And it is a brand new tumor. Well away from all other tumors. Now my doctor had his back unwillingly shoved up against his own wall. The risks of a liver biopsy of this new tumor were outweighed by the fact that a brand new tumor is seriously bad shit news. I do not think he expected at all to learn what kind of cancer I have. That is ANOTHER medical advance that has occurred over just these past 6 years. And, now that we know, it does explain why my cancer is acting the way it is. Bile duct cancer is a very tenacious cancer that will do all it can to overcome chemo and it appears it has found a crack in my armor.

And here I thought I had just jumped into the ocean and was swimming for all I was worth. Who knew I was still tethered to that fucking cancer ship? Guess I'm gonna have to grab that tether and learn how to waterski. I already know how to "regular" waterski and even single ski. Now I have to also fucking throw in jumping tricks, probably while skiing backwards? Hmmm. What shall I wear?[pulls on Big Girl Ruffly Rhumba Panties]

I TRY to keep remembering my deal with God so I am also upset that I am upset At All. I was supposed to not get upset ever again. Another thought that trails through my brain is this: if not for the brave patients and doctors IN RECENT TIMES going for The Brass Ring there would be no history of successful bile duct cancer transplants and I still would not have a chance. Now I have 80 chances (or some mangulation of math). Too bad that ring so closely resembles one of those Rings of Hell we all hear about. haha!

If they could step up to the plate, I really ought to at least honor them by trying to step up to my own [damn fucking piled with shit] Big, Shiny, Pretty plate. [makes forced smile]

I cannot wait to see my doctor tomorrow and hear what he has to say. [grunts for awhile] Well. I see I have lost my powers to "move the space and time continuum" so evidently I am going to HAVE to wait. hahahhahaha!

It's One Day At A Time for now. Tomorrow I say "go" to the doctor. dammit.Hope I get time enough to buckle up.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

and all they gave her for her agony was a single, ordinary, "flesh color" band-aid. God forbid ANYONE's flesh is ever THAT color. When will they humor me and give me a big old mummy wrap to impress/scare others? [pouts]

In case you need to ever get a liver biopsy done: they are totally a non-event. Anyone who claims otherwise must be some kind of Quite High Maintenance Bitch, says Pansy The Most Manned Up Woman in the Universe.

Of course, there were some wonderful gory moments: the vein in my right arm "blew". I told the nurse to never say that word in my conscious presence again. The vein in my left arm just would not cooperate and when I finally HAD to say "ow" she apologized and stopped digging. They decided they could access my chestport at which point I demanded to see their qualifications to do so. They did a remarkably believable approximation of what the chemo nurses do to me so I let them access my chestport. Without any numbing but sometimes you have to bite the damn crochet hook needle and just do it.

The doctor was not utterly optimistic before the procedure because he had several obstacles: a very specific and relatively small tumor in a liver crowded with tumors had to be biopsied; needle biopsies can only take limited tissue and that can result in a "not enough to make any determination" sample size....necessitating a do-over or, more likely, an invasive surgical biopsy. Then he reviewed my CT scans, felt around my liver and realized the tumor is miraculously quite set apart from any others and somewhat accessible, BUT ONLY IF I HELD MY BREATH. When I held my breath my expanded lungs pushed the liver out "just enough" which meant we could do the biopsy without a live-feed CT scan. This is desireable since the less radiation I have to be subjected to, the better. He ultrasounded me, got a lock on the tumor position and we were off to the races.

We worked out a deal where I would hold my breath and he would do what he could in that time frame; then we'd take a breather (pun!) and so we continued to shampoo/rinse/repeat until he got a tissue sample. THREE tissue samples, thank you very much. The creepiest part was the lidocaine injection. The doctor, of course, cannot merely numb the skin. He has to numb all the way down and into the liver. The needle's pointy part was seriously 6 inches long. And just about all of it got pushed with emphasis into my abdomen. I fiercely closed my eyes during that part. Ick. He'd stab, inject, the stuff would burn/sting until it numbed me, he'd wait a couple more seconds, stab further, inject, burn/sting, etc. That took about 4 deeper and deeper stabbings to complete. When he hit the liver there was a "whoosh" sensation of my entire liver/right side being flooded with something. Fortunately, the numbing kicked in REAL QUICK.

Then he did the part where he stuck something inside me to snip off tissue. And when it "snipped" it did so with a very loud, echo-off-the-walls, metallic SNAP. I never saw that device because I had put Super Glue on my eyelids by then. I was also getting "mild sedation" via the chestport IV. I would advise them occasionally that I really did not feel very sedated at all. They'd laugh and buzz me up a bit. We really had a good and cooperative time. The doctor was proud of me.

Now I am not to lift anything beyond 15 pounds for the next 72 hours. Like I ever lift that much of anything except maybe a pie. No activities that might "strain" me, like running. So I am going to include bicycling for that 72 hour restriction period. But, of course, I CAN go back to work FULL TIME as soon as tomorrow if I "feel up to it". I also decided that Mr. Pansy should not "feel up to it" for 72 hours. I might get a "strain". He definitely is going to be feeling strained by the end of 72 hours of celibacy. hahahhaha!

And then, this morning, Pansy Completely Forgot about no straining and let Mr. Pansy have his way with her! Then, in the middle of it all, HE remembered and got all upset and "stopped" to ask me if I was okay. When did HE forget that if Pansy is "not okay" the whole world comes to a screeching "not okay" stop? Doofus. But he's Pansy's Doofus so that's okay.

The mildy-sedated Pansy (Oh, ~weep~ she looks SO life-like.) Actually, I rather look like a "big old mummy" all wrapped up and kindy scary. Gotta watch what I wish for. haha!

All this hoopla is because 3 months ago a new tumor showed up on my CT scan. Drat. Then, the most recent CT scan showed the new tumor has doubled in size. Double Drat. So, Pansy will be getting some gawdawful procedure to remove said new tumor in the very near future. She will be SURE to regale you with the horrors of that exciting episode on the ongoing, hopefully long-running, mini-series: "Perils of Pansy". How worried is Pansy? She is so worried the tumor removal might put her on the "temporarily disabled" list, she will not schedule it before the upcoming Baby Pansy Wedding. I want that meal we're paying the Big Bucks for. Sometime after 9/19/09 [burp] it's more "off to the races".

Sunday, August 30, 2009

First of all.............I have added another doctor to my medical posse: cardiologist.

1. He HATES tattoos! How does Pansy know? She beats information out of anyone who crosses her path. And he most definitely crossed Pansy with his condemnation of tattoos. I learned of his extreme personal aversion re tattoos when I asked him if he thought it would be safe to get flowers [pansies of course] and vines/leaves tattooed over my [brace yourselves, youngsters, it's gonna happen to YOU too, ya punks!] VARICOSE VEINS. He could not be swayed even when I assured him the tattoos would be tasteful and discrete---as long as I did not wear short, revealing, age-inappropriate clothing. [Yes, WE all know Pansy was lying through her stained, snaggle tooth when she told the cardiologist that huge, fucking lie, but HE doesn't know yet that Pansy Lies.] I guess he doesn't get asked THAT question very often since most of his patients are near death on tennis balls. You know. The tennis balls on their walkers. [Note to Self: add that last comment to list of Reasons Why Pansy Is Going To Hell.]

2. I told him the story behind the tattoos Pansy already has. He found that quite intriguing. Especially the parts about being naked in Jamaica. NO, you do not have to be naked in Jamaica to get tattoos. That's just how Pansy likes to get inspiration for her tattoos.

3. I was seeing the cardiologist because my blood pressure has been quite active and since June it has been scoring big time: in the neighborhood of 230/140. Evidently that is a bad, crime-filled neighborhood. How bad is this neighborhood? Pansy's savvy New Jersey sister-in-law (Long Suffering Woman) told Pansy: It's the kind of neighborhood that only has bars, tattoo parlors and barber shops where they only know 2 kinds of hairdos: "buzz cuts" and "scalp design". Which does go a long way toward explaining why Pansy is often hungover wondering where she got THAT tattoo and why is she sporting an uneven buzz cut?

4. About 2 minutes into the initial 15 minute "consultation appointment" (which is doctor code on their insurance company reimbursement rip-off claims for "do nothing but schedule another appointment"), he stopped talking, looked at me, took a breath and said "This is above my pay grade." Yessss!

I guess he's never had a patient who has had over 200 chemos and eagerly plans to have more. He then proceeded to talk with me for a solid hour. FINALLY, I got my $20 co-pay money's worth out of a doctor! As I was leaving, he said something along the lines of: "No fucking way in hell am I going to let you die while you are on my watch." He was not kidding around. He put me on an additional blood pressure drug and now I take 4 drugs for my blood pressure. That drug has been quite enjoying kicking Pansy's ass ever since.

5. Day One of Additional Drug was a Saturday. I spent it flat out on the floor with multiple side effects. They included, but were not limited to:----dizziness; vertigo; faintness; feeling weak when sitting/standing (those sound alike but they are each separate side effects)----nausea; flatulence, constipation, diarrhea, flushing (yes, you can have ALL of those simultaneously and NO, smartasses, the "flushing" was more than the toilet....it's hot flashes)----headache; chest pain (like being crushed externally by a can masher); swelling of extremities; leg cramps; leg pain---insomnia, dry mouth, runny nose

And the special side effects for ONLY all you guys out there are:----impotence----enlarged breasts [???!!!] WHY DO YOU GET ALL THE FUN SIDE EFFECTS????!!!!

The ONLY side effects I have not yet had the joy of experiencing are:---bleeding gums---transient blindness

I will bet you anything that I have had the "transient blindness". While I was asleep. Side effects can't tell time so what would they know about when to show up? Does "transient blindness" involve playing Seeing Eye Dog with Hobos? Because Pansy is tired of that game with Mr. Pansy. [Feel free to insert your own rude comment concerning teaching old dogs new tricks.] Pansy is just grateful all the above side effects are not under the category of "go to the nearest emergency room"....of which there are about 6 of those.

6. Dammitall, the drug combo is working. Within 48 hours my blood pressure readings were down by half: 140/90 and lower. No wonder I was on the floor with my stomach in my throat. With that kind of a roller coaster drop I am sure I was somewhat experiencing the equivalent of going into shock. The drug is working but it is pretty nasty. I am going to gut it out for another week or so but the foot swelling and leg pain/cramps are real close to disabling. At least the dizziness has subsided so that I am able to ride my bicycle again.

7. During these 3 visits to the cardiologist he did an EKG; a kidney ultrasound; and an echocardiogram on me. To his delight (and mine, truth be told) every result was "perfect". Not a bit of artery problems, no heart damage of any sort, 54 resting heartrate. Just amazing. The doctor was shocked since he had warned me that he expected some heart damage due to my blood pressure history. Not.

Still, he wants to see me again in 3 months and then every 6 months thereafter. Because he has the hots for Pansy. How do I know this? Because, just like all my other doctors, the cardiologist has fallen under Pansy's Spell. He would say to me at each appointment: "You look GREAT." But only in a platonic, medical way.dammit.

Hairy Backs ARE Icky

The leaves are beginning to fall.....

About Me

I walk my talk...in girlie costumes so the carcass can more readily be recovered. I am hopelessly white. I lived in a 3rd world country during my formative years so I am also a "third culture" person with Spanish deeply buried in my brain. Evidence points to me having Aztec blood sacrifice tendencies despite no actual lineage. Damn pigs keep busting me for that knife I carry in my hair but I have no idea how it got there, Officer. A "German From Russia" who is American by birth, Texan by the Grace of God, and smart enough to be from Texas. "From" being the operative word since my family left there the minute we realized we were free to do so. Laid eyes on hubby 6/16/68 and he has been dying a slow death every day since. Which pleases me no end. But he does have a smile on his face. I have "undiagnosed primary cancer" metastasized to my liver, right kidney and both lungs. I will be glugging down chemo via a chest port on a weekly basis "forever" which started 10/2003. So don't mess with me because it looks like they are going to have to put a stake through my heart to get me to actually die. Now where the FUCK is my RED LIPSTICK?!